


like how the night wind felt more changeable than cold and distant stars (like how sometimes it just all still seems so far)

by jublis



Series: heirloom [7]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Air Nomad Genocide (Avatar), Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Waterbending & Waterbenders, a slight dash of aangst, because i can't help myself, but the doctor who one absolutely was, i apologize for my crimes suki and toph, listen. this is NOT zutara, my crimes being barely mentioning you in this, the mamma mia reference was not entirely intentional, they're just bros, this sounds so sad, yeah it's kya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26309764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jublis/pseuds/jublis
Summary: "You see, for me, it’s like this,” Aang makes a swirling motion with his hand, and Katara can feel a cool breeze running through the three of them. “Air is everywhere, so it’s easier for me to feel when there’s a lack of it, instead of where there is a lot of it. It’s almost like whispering. Like it’s waiting for me. But for waterbending, Gyatso said it was like a wave, lapping at your spirit. Just—”“Just under your skin,” Katara completes, quietly. She closes her hand into a fist in front of her. “Like humming."Aang smiles brightly, nodding. “Yeah! You feel it, then? The rain?”Katara nods. “I just didn’t know it was a waterbending thing. I thought it was amething.”“What’s the difference?” Aang asks.She opens her mouth. Closes it again. “I don’t know,” she says, finally. “I guess there isn’t.”Or, Katara lives happily ever after. Or she lives happily. Or she just lives. Featuring sleepless nights, holding history on your shoulders, and Sokka being a good big brother.
Relationships: Aang & Katara (Avatar), Azula & Katara (Avatar), Katara & Kya (Avatar), Katara & Sokka (Avatar), Katara & Zuko (Avatar), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: heirloom [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808977
Comments: 33
Kudos: 244





	like how the night wind felt more changeable than cold and distant stars (like how sometimes it just all still seems so far)

**Author's Note:**

> yes hi I KNOW, OKAY. I KNOW. believe you me, this is as unexpected to me as it is to you. but. since we are gathered here tonight. i hope you enjoy - a katara character study!
> 
> also, i'm kind of debating which part of heirloom this work should be. i think i'll be putting it just after the zuko coronation fic, and before zuko & azula's relationship study. but tell me what you think!!
> 
> title is from "not the night wind," by nana grizol.

**i.**

When Katara is seven years old, she doesn’t sleep for a week. 

It is a sunless week. She knows the elders of the village have names to refer to it, categories to fit this astronomical event into, but she doesn’t care enough to go looking for them. And anyways, she doesn’t need a name to understand what’s happening. It’s—she’s tried to explain it to Sokka before, but he doesn’t get it. It’s like she can feel it just under her skin, like an itch she can’t scratch off. _The night sky is right here,_ she would say, pressing her palm against her opposite wrist. _And the moon is there, and it’s shining so bright that I can’t go to sleep._ A fist against her heart, pressing. 

Sokka would just stare at her with blank eyes, head tilted like a polar sea-dog who’s heard a sound in the distance. Once, he asked, very seriously, _Are you sure you’re not sick? Maybe we should talk to Gran-Gran about it. She knows everything._

After that, Katara stops trying to explain things like these to anyone. Some things are just hers, and Katara is not the sort of person to ever go back on her word. She doesn’t breathe a word about her waterbending for years, and no one else seems awfully eager to understand it, either. She can deal with that.

_It’s an ancient art, unique to our culture,_ Mom tells her. She takes Katara’s small hands between her own, and traces her palms, as if memorizing her skin. _I’m sorry you have to carry so much history in your shoulders alone, Katara._

_I’m strong enough_ , Katara says. She’s small, and young, and she’s a girl, but as far as it matters to her, she has always been strong enough. She will always make herself strong enough, strong as Dad is, strong as Sokka will one day be. 

And Mom just smiles. Katara knows about the war as much as any kid does: like it’s in her bones. And she can see what it’s been doing to her mother. Her smile has been getting sadder and sadder, eyes darker and darker, skin rougher and rougher. There are jagged pieces of her that didn’t use to be out of place, the same way there are scars that Dad didn’t use to bear, the same way there’s a set to Sokka’s jaw that seems older than it has any right to be on such a young face. 

Gran-Gran says she watches too much. Katara doesn’t know how not to. 

It’s a sunless week, and the moon never rises by their village, even though Katara always knows it’s there. She’s sitting cross-legged at the edge of a small cliff overlooking her village by just a few feet, tightening her parka around her shoulders. If she squints her eyes just right, over this slice of sea and the iced mountain ahead, she can almost pretend she can see the soft glow of moonlight coloring the sky just a shade lighter. Her fingers thrum with energy, small heartbeats on her fingertips. She’s tired, but restless. Katara whispers small prayers to Tui and La, just so she can fill her mouth with something other than silence. She doesn’t know why she feels so big for her own skin, in weeks like these.

(In years to come, Princess Yue will tell her that waterbenders rise with the Moon.

No, that’s not right. Yue will use softer, kinder words. She will talk about the spirits, the push and pull of ocean and moon, the eternal love song of Tui and La, forever reaching for each other. She will place a hand on Katara’s arm, and smile. She will die a hero’s death. 

The Fire Prince is the one who will tell Katara that. _You rise with the Moon_ , he’ll say, breathless and bruised, fire falling from his lips. _I rise with the Sun._

It’s a fight she will lose. But it is a nice idea, Katara will think. And still, she rises. She can live with that. 

She’ll wonder how many things she will have to decide she can live with.)

Katara can hear her mother’s footsteps on the snow behind her, and tilts her head a little in greeting. She doesn’t want to look away from the horizon, just in case it’ll slip away from her. “Hi, Mom,” she whispers, trying not to cringe at the sound of her own voice. 

Kya sounds more amused than mad, even though the entire village has been asleep for hours. “Why, hello there,” she answers quietly, sitting down next to Katara. A deep blue parka covers her sleeping clothes, and Katara knows it used to belong to Gran-Gran. Sometimes Katara thinks love just means giving things to other people. Like Sokka passes down to her the toys he doesn’t want anymore, or Gran-Gran gives Mom clothes, or how Muluk and Karak, two older boys from the village, always give each other sea crystals before a hunting trip. You give things like you give yourself away. You love on purpose. 

Katara draws a line in the snow with her glove-covered finger. “Sorry,” she says, and it means hello. “I couldn’t sleep again. I know Dad says I should stay indoors when that happens, but.”

Mom nods. “Waterbending thing?”, she asks, and Katara deliberately does not flinch. 

“I think so. Maybe,” and, before Katara can stop herself, “It’s not like there’s anyone to tell me why I work the way I do.”

Mom doesn’t look surprised. She just watches the sky, the sea, her dark brown skin smooth as carved wood under the stars. “When you were born,” she says, “I was scared. Really scared. You were born with the Moon, and I knew what that meant. History has not been kind to our people, Katara, and I’m still afraid of what it holds for you. I’m sorry that this is something you have to carry. And I want you to know only one thing.” She puts her hand on Katara’s cheek, the fur of her gloves slightly rough against the skin. Blue eyes meet blue, cloudless sky against a rain-stormed sea. “You will never have to carry it alone, my love, my life. This is what it means to have a family. You will _never_ have to carry it alone. Promise me you won’t try to.”

Katara nods, biting her lip. “I promise, Mama.”

Her mother’s hand doesn’t leave her cheek, eyes still searching for something in Katara’s face. Her smile is in a million shattered pieces. “I am so very proud of you, Katara,” she says. “Of who you are, and who you will become. You and your brother. I’m the happiest mother on every world.”

Katara’s eyes widen. “Fear and all?,” she asks.

Kya nods, face serious. “Fear and all. Always.”

**. . .**

(If you know how this story ends, everything sounds like a foreshadowing.

Mom dies. Mom is killed. Mom is _murdered_. 

Katara thinks about her face in that sunless week, under the starlight. The set of her jaw as she held onto Katara, her searching eyes. _Fear and all,_ Kya says, and the words will follow Katara forever. Where the son knows all about the quietness parents leave behind, the daughter will never know a moment’s silence. Harsher people would call it a haunting, but Katara likes to believe that as long as she can still hear her mother’s voice, they’re both still alive enough to keep going. 

Fear and all. Katara thinks Mom was the bravest woman in every world.

But still. Something is burning.)

**ii.**

“Of course I know what rain _is_ ,” Sokka says, wringing his hair on the grass next to their shelter. “I’d just never seen it before.”

Aang’s mouth forms a silent _oh_ , as if that was something he’d never considered before. Katara tries to not feel embarrassed by the way he’s shocked that they’ve never seen rain before, but she can feel her face redden in spite of herself. She really doesn’t think it’s such a big deal. How much does it rain for everyone else, after all? Katara has heard stories from some of the more well-travelled men back in their village, so she knows rain in theory—she knows what water is, and she has seen snow fall before, so the two ideas kind of mashed up together in her head.

It’s nothing like this.

It’s raining so hard she can barely see two feet in front of her, the air a tangle of mist and fast-falling water. Aang had seen the storm clouds forming way up ahead as they flew, and he and Appa had managed to dodge it for long enough to find them all a safe spot, a half-hidden cave somewhere in the mountains. It’s just deep enough to fit the three of them and a ten-ton flying bison, but there’s not space for much else; they can’t do anything for now but wait for it to pass. Sokka stood in the rain for a whopping total of one minute, to see what “all the fuss was about,” and came back soaked to the bone and shivering. He and Aang bickered in the background of Katara’s hearing, something along the lines of _Come on, Sokka, I can airbend the water away, and then you’ll be right as rain!_ and _What does that even mean? And I said I’m fine, it’ll dry on its own, I’m not a baby._

Here’s the thing the men from the village never told them about: the sound.

Nevermind that Katara can feel each droplet of water upon the ground as if it thrummed on her own skin. Nevermind that she can feel the push and pull of the rain all around her, that she knows if she merely flicked her wrist the storm would open up around her, regardless of how little control she still has over her waterbending. But the _sound_.

She tilts her head back, leaning against the solid rock wall of the cave. It seems like the world is falling. Overgrown grass and trees shake and quiver under the force of the water, leaves rustling. It’s almost like white noise, in its endless sound. Katara can barely hear the sound of her own breath, but she can feel it in her chest, almost about to burst. And the smell—she didn’t know the earth could smell so raw. She can almost taste the aliveness in her mouth.

“Can you feel it?” Aang asks, and it’s like being thrown back into her own body.

Katara jolts, just a little, hugging her knees to her chest and looking back at him. “Can I feel what?” she says, but it’s like she already knows the answer.

Aang leans forward on his elbows, gray eyes wide and earnest. “I never learned from any waterbending masters, but Monk Gyatso liked to talk about benders’ connection with their elements. It was before—well,” his eyes dart around the cave, somewhere between restlessness and avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze, “before they told me who I was, so I didn’t really understand why he talked about it so much. I don’t know. The way you were looking at the rain reminded me of what he said about waterbending, is all.”

“What did he say about waterbending?” Katara asks immediately. Sokka settles down on the ground next to her, and she lets him lean his—damp, Tui and La, is he _serious_?—head on her shoulder. It feels like silent support, and she’s thankful for it. Learning about her bending is terrifyingly wonderful, as in it’s everything she’s ever wanted, and yet it scares her so much she wants to curl herself into a ball and let someone older handle everything else. 

_You get this look whenever you hear anyone talk about waterbending,_ Sokka told her once. _It’s like thirst._

Aang’s expression clears, a grin taking over his face. “Well,” he begins, “there are fundamental differences between all kinds of bending, but there are also a lot of similarities. You can find bending stances that look a lot alike between waterbending and firebending, or between airbending and waterbending. It’s like—everything is _connected_ , and everything happens for a reason. For waterbenders, the connection between the person and their element is very spiritual, which is why all waterbenders are born when the Moon is at its brightest.”

“Katara was born during a full Moon,” Sokka says, voice muffled against Katara’s shoulder. “But shouldn’t that make her a moon-bender?”

Katara whacks him on the head. “That’s not a thing, Sokka.”

“It’s a valid question!” Aang pipes up. “There’s a story that explains the connection between Tui and La, the moon and the ocean, but I’m not really sure how it begins. Anyways, here’s the thing. With the exception of firebenders, all other benders depend on their elements already existing so we can bend them. And every kind of bender feels that element in a different way. You see, for me, it’s like this,” Aang makes a swirling motion with his hand, and Katara can feel a cool breeze running through the three of them. “Air is everywhere, so it’s easier for me to feel when there’s a _lack_ of it, instead of where there is a _lot_ of it. It’s almost like whispering. Like it’s waiting for me. But for waterbending, Gyatso said it was like a wave, lapping at your spirit. Just—”

“Just under your skin,” Katara completes, quietly. She closes her hand into a fist in front of her. “Like humming.”

Aang smiles brightly, nodding. “Yeah! You feel it, then? The rain?”

Katara nods. “I just didn’t know it was a waterbending thing. I thought it was a _me_ thing.”

“What’s the difference?” Aang asks. 

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. “I don’t know,” she says, finally. “I guess there isn’t.”

They lapse into silence, and the rain keeps falling. Sokka starts snoring softly next to her ear, burrowing into her shoulder like a child, and she puts her arm around him to keep him close. Aang leans against Appa’s soft fur, and Katara pretends not to listen when he starts talking quietly with his bison, words falling in a dialect that hasn’t been spoken out loud in a hundred years. Its vowels are rounded and soft, syllables quick and melting into each other. Dimly, Katara wonders if the southern Air Nomad dialect had a different accent than the other ones; if even inside the same culture, the language was shaped by the people who spoke it. It probably doesn’t make any difference now. Aang probably knows it better than anyone else. 

“Appa,” Aang whispers, long after Katara has fallen asleep, “why does talking about it feel like losing everything twice?”

  
  


**iii.**

Aang tells her that every bender is like their own element. Earthbenders are steadfast and solid. Airbenders are swift and quick. Waterbenders are fluid and have many phases, like the Moon. 

For someone with many phases, Katara doesn’t change a lot. There are things she knows to be true; she knows what she considers fair and unfair, she knows what is pain and what is luck, and she likes to believe she has a good grasp and what is right and what is wrong.

The Fire Prince isn’t what she thought he would be, and Katara hates him for it. Hates him for daring to look this human when his people have always been the monster under her bed. Hates the swell of emotion on her chest as he says, _I guess that’s something we both have in common,_ as if they’re merely two people talking, and not the children of a war that has ripped the world apart. In the caves of Ba Sing Se, the emeralds flicker and glow a steady green, painting both of them in what Katara imagines the Spirit World looks like. 

He says the war took his mother away, also. Katara has never heard of a Fire Lady, and for a fleeting moment, she almost feels guilty. _Was she kind?,_ she wants to ask. _Did she also feel like the happiest mother in the world, just because she was yours?_

It’s so easy for kind women to slip through the empty spaces of a sentence, between the holes left by tragedy. Katara lets her fingers rest on The Fire Prince’s scar, grip soft and barely there. For some people, the war works like sandpaper: they get smoother and smoother, smaller and smaller. For others, it’s like a jagged knife. It just scars and takes away. Katara doesn’t know what to do with the idea that she and the prince have been living the same war. She doesn’t like being proven wrong.

How dare Zuko look so small? How dare he lower his eyes, as if ashamed? How dare he look like his heart has been torn from his chest over and over again? How dare he look as young as she feels? 

Katara’s always had a soft spot for lost children. It comes back to haunt her.

Seems like she wasn’t wrong about him after all. But for some reason, that only leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

**iv.**

They’re setting camp in the Western Air Temple when Katara trips and cuts her arm on a sharp piece of rock on the ground, fallen from the great statues that once stood tall in the main hall. It doesn’t hurt all that much, really, but when she picks herself up, she can see a bloom of red on her forearm.

She stops breathing. 

It’s not—it’s not like she’s _there_ again, but she can hear Hama’s words echoing through time, like shards of glass against her face, cold and cutting and wrong, everything that waterbending is not supposed to be. _Congratulations, Katara,_ she says, again and again. _You’re a bloodbender. You are everything you have ever been terrified of. Your heartbeats are footsteps. No one is ever coming to save you. Happy endings are children’s tales. Everything you know is buried here no matter where you go._

Katara clenches her fists, even though she knows what she should be doing. The healer part of her brain screams at her to stop the flow of blood, to reach into her water pouch, to make sure her hands are clean before she touches the wound, but she feels like an ice crystal. If she moves in the wrong way, she might shatter, and nothing will be able to put her back together again. And as she keeps still, and keeps still, and keeps still, she can hear the others moving around her—Haru and Teo and The Duke leaving to give her some space, Toph’s voice steady and yet shrill as she talks to her, trying to give Katara a sense of grounding. It’s not Katara’s place to fall apart like this, and Toph sounds so scared, and really, Katara just needs to take a deep breath, and—

She can feel warm, rough hands against her cheeks. Sokka is peering into her eyes, nothing but grim determination in his face. The only tell that he’s worried at all is the way he bites at his lips, absently, and his fingers wipe the tears beneath Katara’s eyes as if there isn’t anything more important he should be doing right now. 

“Sokka,” she says, tongue feeling like sandpaper in her mouth. “I—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sokka says, still holding her face as she gasps for air. “It’s okay. Come on. The Duke found this indoor stream just up a staircase. Let’s get you stitched up.”

Katara thought he was hyperbolizing it; that The Duke had really only found what used to be a pool, or some remnants of water from a flood on the ground, but the upper floor of the Western Air Temple has a stream running through it, water clear and untouched. The stone floor is sprinkled with debris and dust, old carvings on the walls faded away by time, but the hall smells crisp like a winter morning, and the water is just as cold. Katara dips both of her hands into it and tries not to whimper in relief, hair falling in clumps around her face and shielding it from her brother’s gaze.

She still remembers what he told her the day they met Hama, even though she hasn’t brought it up ever since. That moment still feels tender and aching, like a slow-healing wound. It’s not often that Katara lets herself be held, and it’s not often that Sokka offers complete, utter selflessness. Sometimes she forgets he’s supposed to be older than her, but in times like those, she knows it could never be the other way around. No one is as good as filling up empty spaces like her brother is; no one can kiss bruises better the way he does, or give better piggyback rides, or make everything else feel quiet and safe and doable. Sokka is softer than he has any right to be, and Katara treasures it. 

_Katara_ , he’d said. _Let me._

Like kids left alone with a pack of bandages, he didn’t ask where it hurt; he just held all of her.

(She doesn’t think she’ll ever love anyone as much as she loves her brother. But that’s the sort of thing you don’t have to say out loud.)

Katara tries her best to heal the gash on her arm without looking at it; it was a shallow cut, so the blood has mostly stopped flowing. She rolls up her sleeve and splashes a bit of water to clean the skin before sewing it shut with her bending, and all the while, Sokka watches her, arms crossed and unmoving. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, as a means to fill the silence. “I didn’t mean to freak out like that. I probably worried everyone for nothing.”

“Apologize again and you’ll be talking with Mr. Boomerang,” Sokka deadpans. “It wasn’t your fault, Katara. I wish you’d stop acting like everything is.”

Katara bristles, then takes a deep breath to calm herself down. She holds her hand up to her arm, feeling the numbing coolness of the healing take place. “I don’t know what you want me to say, then,” she says. “Thank you for showing me this. It’s helpful.”

Sokka is quiet for a moment, and then he says, “It’s not like we’ve never seen someone have an attack like that before. You remember the older men in the village that came back from scouting missions, sometimes? Especially if they ran into Fire Nation soldiers? And Gran-Gran, after Mom died? They’re just,” he frowns, and then nods to himself, “symptoms of war. That’s all.”

“But I haven’t—,” Katara goes to say, but the words die on her mouth. Sokka smiles at her, though it looks more like a grimace.

“You can’t say you haven’t even fought in the war anymore, little fish,” he says. “None of us can.”

Something in Katara’s chest clenches as she hears the nickname. He hasn’t called her that in years, but he barely seems to notice he’s done it. She leans back on her heels, away from the stream, and asks, “Has it happened to you before? These _attacks_?”

Sokka doesn’t meet her gaze. “A couple times. After I came back from the Spirit World. The first full Moon after Yue died. And after today?” he laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “Ask me again in a few days. I’m sure the answer will change.”

And, in spite of herself, Katara feels smaller than ever. Her eyes burn. “When does it get better, Sokka?” she asks, voice ragged. “When do we get a happy ending?”

Her brother shuffles closer and puts his arms around her shoulders, pressing her against his chest. Tui and La, Katara hates crying. Sometimes she wishes she could be like Sokka, whom she hasn’t seen shed a tear in years, but she also knows that’s another burden to bear.

(And sometimes, a hug is just another way to hide your face. But she lets this one slip.)

Sokka doesn’t answer her. He just holds her tighter, and she holds him tighter, and you can never be sure who’s holding onto who anymore. Katara’s legs are numb from sitting down on the cold, hard ground, and she’s sure Sokka isn’t faring much better, but neither of them let go of each other for a long, long time.

Sokka whispers into her hair, “You don’t always have to be a wound, Katara. You’re a daughter, but I think you can become something else.”

Katara chokes a laugh. “When did you get so wise?,” she mumbles, face hidden on his shoulder. 

She can feel his laugh rumbling. “You know,” he says, voice almost amused, “Bloodbending is just a harsher word for healing. It depends on who’s telling the story.”

Stupid brother. He was always too smart for his own good.

  
  


**v.**

The Fire Princess writhes on the ground, and Zuko clutches Katara’s hand. All around them, Caldera City is burning. Fire is catching.

Katara can’t find it in herself to be afraid. Not anymore. 

This ending doesn’t feel like one. Victories are supposed to be swift and heroic; heroes are supposed to rise against the odds and defeat the great evil, and bring back balance to the world, and everything is supposed to be good again. But there are no heroes in this scene, nor is there a great evil. There are two tired children holding onto each other, and a girl crying out for a mother that isn’t there. This is not a victory. Or at least, it doesn’t feel like one. 

“We have to make sure she can’t escape,” Zuko rasps, pulling himself up into a sitting position. Katara bites her tongue so as to not shout at him, and helps to keep him steady. “Then—the Fire Sages. To legitimize my claim to the throne. I didn’t,” he coughs, and it sounds rough on his throat, “I didn’t _technically_ win the Agni Kai, but Azula broke it when she went after you. So she lost, anyway.”

“Zuko, will you breathe, please?” Katara says, putting her hands on his shoulders. “One minute. Just take a breath for one minute, and then we’ll go and do everything that needs to be done, okay?”

Zuko seems like he’s about to argue, and then his eyes go glassy and wide, mouth set into a hard line. She has seen this look before, on her own reflection, on Sokka, on Gran-Gran. She’s sure he won’t remember any of this in the morning, so she just puts her arms around his waist and holds him close, just to make sure that at least someone she cares about is safe, that some of them made it. He doesn’t hug her back, but she doesn’t mind it all that much. She’s not doing it for him, anyway. 

The Fire Princess—no. _Azula_ lets out a sob that sounds more like a splintering of bones, and then goes back to wild mumbling, her chains clanking under her body. Katara refuses to look.

(She’ll regret it, in years to come. After this day, she won’t see Azula until they’re both seventeen, years out of war and another day into healing. Azula will call for her, and as a courtesy, Katara won’t breathe a word about. A week later, the Fire Princess will leave, and she won’t step a foot into the Fire Nation for five years. 

During Zuko and Sokka’s engagement reunion, Azula will sit next to Katara, and they’ll toast to each other. 

_To unlikely friendships,_ Katara will say, and Azula will laugh quietly.

_Thank you,_ Azula will answer. _You were the only one who could have helped me get to where I needed to go_.

_One daughter to the other,_ Katara will say.)

Once, Katara asked Sokka about happy endings. She thinks maybe this is one step to the closest they’ll ever get to one. Maybe they’ll live happily ever after.

Well, maybe they’ll live happily.

Or maybe they'll just live.

**Author's Note:**

> soooo what a ride! let me be clear: officially, the heirloom series is over. unoficially, i can say that and something like this fic will happen. that's just how my mind works. yeah. i hope you liked it!
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciated! if you want to yell at me, you can do that on twitter @bornfrombeauty. also, if u want to see where i get most of my writing inspiration, you can check out my tumblr @makethewordsyours !!


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